


i let you know when my heart overflows

by monograph



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hugs, Idiots in Love, Idols, Introspection, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Love Languages, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Praise, Soft boys being soft, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, they're idols but reality diverges from there onwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monograph/pseuds/monograph
Summary: It starts when Jisung finds out that it's surprisingly easy to fluster Minho.OrJisung has always been observant and he’s best at observing Minho. But has he really misunderstood what is happening between them? The truth turns out to be different than what he expects. Turns out to be much better, definitely.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 36
Kudos: 386





	i let you know when my heart overflows

**Author's Note:**

> This began with a very simple premise, 'what if Minho gets easily flustered because of Jisung?' Then it turned into 7k words worth of sappiness and a little bit of introspection. I am embarrassed by how fluffy and sappy it turned out but sometimes stories lead the writer and not the other way round, I guess. There was a lot of embarrassed screeching from my side tho. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading it!!

He notices it first at 2:45 A.M. on a Thursday morning.

Minho is nodding off over his phone and it threatens to slip from the lax cradle of his fingers. His hair is half wet and the drier locks are flyaway. His shirt is too big and it is slipping off one shoulder. His collarbones are stark in the bright light.

Jisung plucks the phone from his hands and Minho’s fingers seize for a moment. He lifts his head and turns to Jisung with hooded eyes and a frown. “What?”

“You were falling asleep, hyung,” Jisung whispers, just in case Minho is close enough to sleep that he can drift back, “your phone was about to fall.”

“Ugh,” Minho complains and pushes his hands in front of him to stretch his shoulders, “where’s the food?”

“Almost there,” Jisung says, placing the phone back near Minho’s arm.

Minho slumps into his chair, “life sucks,” he says, whiny and plaintive in a way that only exhaustion allows. “I want to sleep, but I won’t be able to until I eat.”

Jisung picks at the string of his hoodie, guilt scratching away with cruel fingers. “I’m sorry, hyung, you didn’t have to,” he says, heaviness leaking from the scratches. “I should’ve managed.” The weight in his chest throbs, turns bitter yellow with shame.

Minho glares at him, “shut up. I have told you that you can ask me for help anytime and I mean it. If you’d just bungled away by yourself in the practice room, I would...” Jisung’s phone chimes with a message from the delivery partner, “I would slap you,” Minho continues and smacks Jisung’s shoulders.

Jisung gives him a sheepish, contrite smile and gets up to follow Minho to the door. Minho’s eager, and his feet get tangled in the too long hem of his sweatpants. He stumbles but stops himself from falling by clutching Jisung’s upper arm.

“Smooth,” Jisung laughs.

Minho pinches him, but he’s hasty and manages to grab only the material of his hoodie. He doesn’t wait to correct it, however, and dashes to the door. Jisung doesn’t have to follow him; getting the cutlery out would be the more efficient use of time, but it’s night and there’s something about the darkness that makes him want to be close to people. Close to Minho.

Jisung doesn’t feel hungry even though he has been dancing well into the night. His mind has a rough, crinkled edge to it that usually precedes the sweet pull of sleep. The chaos of a thousand thoughts crossing and rewiring in his mind mutes his hunger, maybe, demands only silence and solitude.

Minho is rooting through the bag, checking if they got everything that they ordered. They’ve ordered too much, Jisung can tell, but with their lifestyle, they can only ever underestimate their hunger. In all senses of the word, Jisung thinks, when the top of his right quadriceps flutters and his calves burn when he pushes the door closed with his foot.

“I shall regret this tomorrow,” Minho announces as he places all the containers on the table. Jisung opens the containers and hums at the smell of spices and fat. “Here,” Minho offers him a pair of chopsticks from the drawer and settles opposite Jisung.

Silence with Minho is as familiar as talking is. Jisung picks at his food, letting Minho steal all the choice pieces just to see that triumphant smile of his. Minho notices that he is not fighting back after the fifth time, and he drops the newly stolen piece of chicken back into Jisung’s container.

Jisung raises a brow. “It’s okay, you can take it.”

“Victory isn’t as sweet when you don’t fight,” Minho says. “What’s the point if you’re not suffering?”

Jisung rolls his eyes, but he’s thinking about how Minho’s actions and words never quite match. Minho is all abrasive wit, or teasingly murderous or both, but he is also  _ always _ there for everyone. Jisung thinks of all the times he hadn’t even known that he was looking for Minho during a time of crisis. But he just had to turn around to find him standing there, ready to step forward or melt away depending on what he needed.

“Thank you,” Jisung says, breaking the silence, “thank you,” he adds more fervently when Minho blinks at him, chopstick hovering near his mouth. It is perhaps because he’s so exhausted that shame doesn’t sting him, but it is probably the roiling warmth in his chest.

“What for?” Minho asks, eyes wide. His mouth twitches when Jisung grins at him.

“For being you,” Jisung grins wider when he sees Minho smiling, “like, for always being there. I would’ve probably cried or something if you hadn’t come with me to the practice room tonight.”

Minho places his chopsticks back into the takeout box, and rubs the back of his neck. “Shut up, anyone would’ve done it.”

“I know,” Jisung agrees and squints to see if he is imagining the colour on Minho’s cheek. “but I am not talking about them. I am talking about how you always seem to know what I need.”

Minho is definitely blushing. Jisung’s heart flutters and he shifts forward to tap Minho’s hand. “You really mean a lot to me, hyung.”

Jisung watches in awe as Minho’s face floods with colour and he squirms –  _ squirms  _ even as he smooths his face to a cool, unreadable expression.

“If you want all the chicken, just say so,” Minho snorts, busily poking through his container. He darts a glance at Jisung, and drops his gaze a second later.

Jisung’s cheeks are hurting with the force of his smile. He just wants to cup Minho’s cheeks and coo at him. He clenches his fist.

Minho looks at him and gives him a challenging look and this time he holds Jisung's gaze. “Shut up and eat. Cheesy brat,” he grumbles.

Jisung complies only because he has very interesting things to think about.

───────

If there’s one thing that Jisung is, for all the things that he’s not, then it is definitely the fact that he’s observant.

Oh sure, he’s not observant in the conventional sense – he once walked past his laptop thrice while searching for it – and he sometimes fails to see what is obvious to most. But he has always had an eye for what he thinks of as the rhythm of life. The soft beats of a day, the currents and crosscurrents that carry someone through the week, the gentle impressions left on a person. He always notices it and it is so much more interesting than most of the entertainment available to him.

“Stop being a pretentious fuck,” Hyunjin says, “just say you like people watching and go.”

Jisung shoves his shoulder. “It’s the rhythm of life and  _ you _ go away,” he says and sticks his tongue out.

───────

Anyway, this people watching and/or rhythm of life fascinates him, fills up all those breathless moments where they have to wait before they perform. He notices how a make-up artist’s eyes glaze as she goes over the concept notes, and he sees the indulgent, fond smile that a bodyguard tries to hide when he sees them roughhousing.

He likes to tease out stories from the anchoring point of his observation. Does the makeup artist have a better concept in mind? Do their antics remind the bodyguard of his friends? So many trajectories, so many perspectives.

“Hello,” Minho says as he drops down beside him on the couch, “take this,” he thrusts a fan into Jisung’s hand. Then he leans back and takes out his phone.

It’s a week after the night when Jisung flustered Minho. The intervening week had been a headache in many ways and mostly because it prevented him from exercising his newfound knowledge. This time is as good as any, so Jisung jumps right into it.

“Thank you!” he says, turning and putting a folded leg up on the couch, “I was too lazy to go get one for myself.”

Minho gives him a sidelong look. “If you sweated out your makeup there would be hell to pay,” he says, “I don’t want to hear you whining because the makeup noonas scolded you.”

“I know,” Jisung says watching Minho’s ears, “but all the same it saved me a trip so it means a lot.”

“What is this ‘means a lot’ stuff that you’re always on about?” Minho demands, turning to him. He is frowning.

Jisung wants to rub the crease between his brows. Minho looks handsome in his stage outfit and makeup, and Jisung thinks about how he had stumbled into the kitchen this morning with puffy eyes and wild hair, his shorts worn backwards. There it is, that spongy softness right in his chest.

Minho flicks his nose. Jisung grumbles and clutches his nose. “Ow!”

“I asked you something,” Minho readies his hand for another flick, but Jisung speaks before he can flick him again.

“Just – you always think of me even when I am not thinking of myself,” Jisung shrugs, “you take efforts for me when I don’t and I know it is hard work and that it, well, annoying at times, so when you still do it, it just makes me all warm.”

_ You make me warm _ , Jisung doesn’t say.

Minho gapes at him. His eyes are shining and he’s stock still except for the pinkness that is spreading across his cheeks. “It’s nothing,” Minho says, all gruff and unbothered.

Jisung shrugs again, turns around again. “It is something to me,” he says with a wave of his hand and switches on the fan.

Minho keeps looking at him after that, and Jisung pretends not to see.

───────

They’re taking a break and Jisung sits in a corner and forces his shoulders to relax. It is one of his quiet days – days where all he wants to do is to hide in his blanket. Hide away from the world a bit, keep his own company. Sitting in the corner is the best he can do, however, so he scrolls through his social media as he contemplates Minho.

One thing he prides himself on is that, as observant as he is of the rhythm of other people’s life, he is even more intensely observant of his own. For as long as he can remember, he has always been introspective and he ransacks every corner of his self to understand himself. To understand others, to understand the world.

So the thing is, he has always known, if not in exact words, that what he feels for Minho is… different. He has compared what he feels for Minho to what he feels for the others; has studied the way he is with Minho; has tried to see if someone else makes sparks flare and melt into a soft gossamer his chest.

The conclusion is obvious, really. How did he not notice before?

He looks up when a shadow looms over him. It is Hyunjin and he sits down beside him. Jisung drops his head into Hyunjin’s shoulder, glad for the contact even if he’s sweaty.

“You’ve been staring at Minho hyung for a few long minutes now,” Hyunjin says, amusement lighting his voice.

Jisung flushes, but he clears his throat. “Epiphanies require a fair amount of staring,” he says, “and it was a brilliant one. Like all my epiphanies are.”

“Don’t tell me you realised you have a crush on him  _ now _ ,” Hyunjin says, shocked, “come on, man,” he slaps Jisung’s thigh, “I thought you were more perceptive.”

Jisung mutters a soft, “ow,” and rubs his thigh. “I mean, I was piecing everything together and then it turned into this big sappy epiphany,” he says. With his head on Hyunjin’s shoulder, his eyes are looking straight at the couch where Minho is sitting, engrossed in his phone. Warmth blooms in his chest when Minho’s eyes drift to the ceiling as he thinks.

Hyunjin snorts. “And a really obvious one, I hope you know that.”

Jisung’s phone rings. He glances at it and finds that Minho is calling him. He aims a disbelieving look at Minho, but is pointedly ignored.

“Hello?” he sighs, accepting the call. He knows what is coming.

“Checks your texts,” Minho says and cuts the call.

Jisung rolls his eyes and opens his messaging app, a smile threatening to form for no reason whatsoever. He should stop finding everything that Minho does cute because it is proving to be more dangerous for his health than finding them hot.

**Minho** : let me know if you’re in the mood, we can go out and get some food

**Minho** : also i live with you so you can see me everyday, no need to stare this much hehe

**Minho** : but do i have something on my face???

Jisung grins and types back:  _ just too much pretty.  _ Across the room, he sees Minho laugh and roll his eyes.

“Gross,” Hyunjin mutters.

───────

Minho hovers around when they do difficult moves or when they try something extremely acrobatic. For every criticism he gives, he follows it up with two compliments. He tries to put everyone at ease by joking.

Jisung has always noticed it, but somehow he has always remained blind to it. It is like how he sometimes comes back to the dorm after a long day of work and notices the constant noise of the others around him, and finds it comforting. The eight of them are always noisy, but he doesn’t always realise that it soothes him.

Minho is a good teacher, and Jisung wonders if he learned it from someone, or if he is a natural at it. Even after all this time – working and living together, forging a path in this industry, facing its bitter winds together – there are so many things that he doesn’t know about Minho. About all of them really, even himself.

But he has realised that what we know of someone, including ourselves is always half broad brushstrokes and half minutiae. You decide to wade in anyway, you decide to love anyway because every day there’s more to find, and you  _ want _ to know more.

He trudges to Minho when they finish the practice session. He has to go to the recording studio now, but he doesn’t know when he’ll be back and then he’ll forget what he wants to say.

“You’re an amazing teacher, hyung,” he says when he’s near Minho.

Minho’s hand freezes on the straps of his gym bag for a second, but he relaxes just as fast. “Thanks, Sungie. I try my best,” he says with a small, pleased smile. A private smile.

Minho has stopped getting flustered after the fan incident, but Jisung doesn’t mind. Yeah, it was a treat to see the unflappable Lee Minho blush and be at a loss for words, but that’s not what this is about. Jisung likes telling him this, likes praising him. His aim, he understands now, is to ensure that Minho knows that he is recognised. That Jisung sees him.

“You’re much better than our instructors,” he tells Minho as he follows him to the door, “you make it fun to learn. I like learning when you’re teaching.”

“You guys are talented,” he shrugs, “it really isn’t that much effort.”

Going from the airless, brightly lit dance room to the sunlight filled corridor shocks his eyes a little. He rubs at them, “teaching is hard,” he says, breathing in the fresh air blowing in from the windows, “and you do it every day on top of other things, so yeah.”

“Thank you,” Minho says quietly.

They have to part ways now and Jisung despairs at having to spend the rest of the day without Minho’s company. It is not like he wants to spend every moment with him, he just wants to spend some time with him in a non-work context.

Minho stops walking. “I kinda worry about my teaching.” He shakes his head, “it is just difficult at times, but what you said–” he rubs the back of his neck, “it means a lot to me.”

Jisung’s breath freezes in his chest. People are milling about him, chattering about schedules and turnovers and the latest scandal, but his mind is blank. It refuses to make meaning out of the sounds around him and runs in loops around what Minho said.

“I’ll go now,” Minho says and he hesitates, biting his lip. Then he jerks forward to give Jisung a quick hug. “Have fun,” he whispers in his ear.

It takes Jisung half an hour for his mind to shift gears and focus on music.

───────

The thing about being so fantastically busy is that there is no time to think. Being shuttled from one place to another, performing, writing, recording, learning – sometimes all at once – leaves exhaustion seeping into his very essence. And it resides there like a bruise, prods at him over a period of days. He has to direct every joule of energy into staying awake, into staying sharp, into embodying his stage name.

And it’s nice, he supposes, not being able to think. For someone like him, whose thoughts often turn against him and stress him out, it is a blessing sometimes. But, this going with the flow thing leaves him disconnected from himself and after a while and that annoys him to no end.

Which is why he has holed himself up in his bed since afternoon. He is restless and he switches between YouTube, his audio books, and his e-books, nothing holding his interest or stimulating his thoughts. He groans and throws a hand over his eyes. A moment later, the door opens and he hears Minho’s familiar footsteps. Then a familiar weight settles next to him.

“I am thinking,” he snaps before he can stop himself and feels guilty the second he utters the last syllable. He sighs.

“I know,” Minho says, “I won’t make any noise. I wanted to – I just wanted to cuddle with you.” His voice is embarrassed and he is so taut, that Jisung feels worse.

“Yeah – yeah, of course. Sorry,” he mumbles, “cuddle away!” he says, louder, kicking up his blanket from the end of the bed.

Minho throws a leg over his hip and slings an arm around his waist. Jisung makes a surprised sound because Minho is exacting about his cuddles and usually rolls him around and tickles him until Jisung is in the perfect cuddling position. This is odd.

“Alright, hyung?” Jisung asks, patting Minho’s hand. He raises his chin and adjusts the blankets so that it cocoons both of them. He sends a mental request for someone to come in to switch off the light.

Minho pushes his nose into his shoulder and sighs, the warmth of his breath makes goosebumps rise in Jisung’s arm. “I’m tired,” Minho says, in that raw, soft voice that means he’s exhausted or sad. “I want this,” he says, “but sometimes it is too much. I just want a break sometimes.”

Jisung understands perhaps even more than he understands anything else. All of them have their own version of ‘I’m tired’ and each of them wants something else instead of the constant grind. For Jisung it is an urge to disappear, to melt into the background, free from prying eyes.

“It is difficult,” he says to his ceiling, ignoring the way Minho’s presence – as small and wounded it is now – is pressing into him. “Especially when we want something that we can’t have. Can you believe that everything is managed for us?” he laughs. “Except for midnight. They always seem to leave that alone.”

Minho nuzzles his shoulder. “Sometimes I just want to play a game and lose myself in it,” he confides, “and not worry about so many things. Not worry about how I look, how I speak, how much I mess up,” he exhales a laugh. “At least restarting a game is easy. A career? Not so much.”

_Maybe we’re not so different_ , Jisung thinks, _sometimes_ _we just want to disappear in different ways._ “If they do anything to your career, I will set everything on fire and salt the earth,” he says and he means to joke, but the rising tide of indignation is real. Too real. _Don’t touch my hyung_ , he thinks out of nowhere and it makes his heart leap.

Minho snorts. “Then that’s two ruined careers.”

“Hyung,” Jisung says, suddenly incandescent with the urge to let Minho know that,  _ you mean a lot to me _ , “you’re one of us. If anything happens to you, we’ll fight for you. I – we want to be beside you.”

Minho hand spasms against his stomach. “And you know that Chan hyung will help you out in any way possible right? We all will,” Jisung says.

Jisung yelps when Minho pinches his waist. “Ow! Why!”

“Sorry!” Minho says, rubbing the spot he pinched. “I was just whining and you were so sweet that – I – that… I didn’t know what to do!” He raises himself on one arm and hovers over Jisung. He is wide-eyed and his lips tremble between a smile and grimace. There’s a faint pinkness to his skin.

“That doesn’t mean you have to be violent!” Jisung complains even as he tries to quell the way his heart is thundering. His face is warm too and god – Minho is so close, his lips are so close, all Jisung has to do is raise his chest. His breath is shaky.

Minho bites his lip. “Sorry, Jisungie,” he chuckles, his hand rubbing soft circles on Jisung’s waist now. “I ruined the moment, didn’t I?”

Jisung stares at the ceiling. “You’re a mess,” he says and he thinks it applies to both of them.

Minho kisses his forehead and then rolls out of the bed, “I’ll switch off the light,” he says.

Jisung is hyper-aware of the spot that Minho kissed. The light is switched off and Jisung touches the spot with two of his fingers. Exhaustion edges into the churn of his thoughts, into the roil in his chest. Certainty sparks bright behind his closed eyes.  _ I am going to do something about this. _

───────

He doesn’t do anything because the next morning, the wheels of idol life are oiled and put into motion again. He stays afloat by consuming more coffee than is medically advisable and sheer will-power. He fuels himself by sponging up every ounce of delight that a job well done gives him and the validation that follows. He stimulates his mind with a new documentary series he has found and warms his heart by spending those short, rare moments of freedom with the others.

But he always finds himself going back to Minho. Not physically, of course, he spends most of his time in the studio these days. But a certain rightness has found place in his chest and it pulses through him, from the tips of his fingers to his toes. Everything has always been easy with Minho and so is accepting this new thing.

Jisung thinks it’s because it just  _ is _ . An added star to the constellation of their friendship. The frame will remain the same, even if Minho rejects him. But, Jisung isn’t worried about that, somehow.

It is another late night – early morning – for him. He’s been in the studio for so long that the world outside has melted away and his mind ticks only to the sounds warbling from his ear phones. It is so late that his mouth has gone stale and his eyes are dry, but he has to finish this because that will leave him with one less thing to do tomorrow – later today.

He observes movement from the corner of his eyes and he darts a distracted gaze towards it. He shrieks and falls off his chair when he sees Minho standing near the door with crossed arms. He takes his headphones off and presses a hand against his chest. “You scared me!”

“I can see,” Minho says drily. “I called your name so many times but you didn’t notice,” he adds, uncrossing his arms and dropping them.

“So what,” Jisung grumbles, turning to his computer to pause the music. The whispers from his headphones cut off. “You just stood there watching me?”

“Yeah,” Minho says and he’s standing near his chair now, “it wasn’t a hardship, you know.”

Jisung turns and raises his brow at him even though he’s trying to stop his stomach from somersaulting. Minho looks proud and he smirks, but the effect is lost because he is soft and puffy with sleep. “Because you’re cute,” he informs Jisung, “when you’re concentrating so much.”

Jisung clears his throat. “Good to know. Anyway what’s up, hyung?”

Minho blinks like he has forgotten what he meant to say. Then his eyes widened. “Oh yes! Do you know what time it is?” he demands, “come back now,” he says.

Jisung swivels his chair and looks at the clock. 3:16 A.M. Then he looks at Minho’s unimpressed face. A thought occurs to him and he isn’t able to stop his smile from blooming nor the fondness that is tinting his voice when he says, “you could’ve just texted me.”

“You’re a terrible texter,” Minho replies and there’s that odd clash of expressions again, bashfulness and annoyance. But a veneer of openness is there too, like worn spots on soft cotton. Minho drops his voice, “and I thought we could make something to eat.”

Jisung doesn’t remember when he last ate. He throws his arms over his head and stretches. “Alright,” he says, dropping his arms. Minho eyes are sort of dazed and his mouth slack, so Jisung snaps his fingers, “hyung, I said, ‘alright.’”

Minho startles, then takes a step back. “Ye – yes,” he says, not holding Jisung’s gaze, “pack up then.”

Jisung squints at him in confusion, but obeys. He saves everything and shoves his stuff into his bag. He turns to Minho and Minho offers him a small, tired smile.

“Let’s go,” he says and laces his hand with Jisung’s.

There are still people here. Light streams from the bottom of doors just as it beams down from the ceilings, the corridor well-lit even in the wee hours of the morning. The work for fame never stops, even if fame itself crumbles, Jisung muses. He hears the uncontrollable cackle of a couple of people behind a door. It is the sort of laughter only possible when you haven’t slept in a day. Jisung knows it well.

The walk back and the trek to the kitchen is spent in silence. Jisung’s mind, glad for the break, turns on the static. In the kitchen, Jisung takes out a water bottle from the fridge. Standing in front of the cabinets, Minho makes a disgusted noise.

“We’re left with one,” he waves a packet, “one packet of ramyeon.” He stomps to the fridge and nudges Jisung with his shoulder. Jisung steps away and watches with amusement when Minho pulls the crisper tray open and makes another annoyed noise. “And of course there are plenty of vegetables. The youth are hopeless,” he grumbles as he starts picking out vegetables.

“Ah, hyung, it is okay,” Jisung says, capping the bottle, “It’s too much work at this time of the night.”

“You haven’t eaten since lunch, Jisungie,” Minho says, “you’re not going to bed with an empty stomach.”

And – there’s something inexplicable crawling up his throat and he’s embarrassingly close to tears. It’s not hunger or exhaustion, it’s just the sheer awe, the dizzying, too hot lance of affection, the sensation of being wrapped and warped by  _ Minho, Minho, Minho _ . His mouth is dry.

Minho hums as he cleans the vegetables under water. Jisung touches his shoulder because he is staggered and because he wants to reassure himself. Minho smiles at him.

“Can you do the eggs?” Minho asks.

Jisung retracts his hand and places the bottle on the counter. He gets the eggs.  _ I am really going to do something, _ he thinks,  _ once this is over _ . Once he is coherent enough to plan something out. Once he isn’t overwhelmed.

───────

His schedule attenuates the intensity of his 3 A.M. deluge of feelings pretty quickly. But it retreats into his heart instead and glows with every beat. The warmth and the pleasure of it is the same as molten liquid. The splatter is immediate and its reach far: it covers distances and crevices that he’s long forgotten

He waits for a time when there aren’t a million other things running through his mind. He comforts himself with the thought of the break that’s coming up – only three days, but a break is a break even if “you’ll have a very light workload,” as the manager says – and snatches moments to observe Minho. His moles and the way he uses his hands, the way his voice lilts and rises when he speaks, the way his lips move. And it leads him to this.

“Jisungie-ah, what the hell.”

Jisung raises his eyes from his thighs to Minho’s crouched form. Beyond him, he can see Felix talking to Hyunjin, his mouth stretching in a smile when Jeongin says something, gesturing at Hyunjin. Minho shifts and Jisung’s gaze snaps back to him.

“Sorry, hyung. “I’m having a bad day, I guess.” He scratches his sweaty forearm. The wall he is leaning against and the floor he is sitting on is cool and comforting for all its hardness. “I’ll do better, promise,” he shifts his eyes from Minho’s ear to his face and regrets it immediately. Minho’s expression is unreadable and wet clumps of his hair darken his brow, hide his eyes.

They’re in the practice room and Jisung has fucked up innumerable times today. He knows that he is getting on other’s nerves, but he has fallen into a vicious circle of exacerbating his mistakes because he is embarrassed by his earlier ones.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” is all the warning Jisung has before he is pulled up from the floor, steadied on his feet, and dragged to the door. He gets a fleeting glimpse of Chan’s amused smile before the hinges jealousy demand the return of the door.

Minho’s light grey shirt from the morning is a dark grey in the afternoon. His hand is warm in Jisung’s hand. His towel hangs around his neck like an inverted smile. He automatically nods and smiles at the staff members who pass by them. He notices that two of them are walking closer than usual. He wonders what is going on.

The room that Minho leads him to is the rarely used practice room, the one with the busted ventilation. An hour in the room makes it smell like people have released effluents instead of sweat. It holds the smell like a grudge.

“You’re over thinking your mistakes,” Minho says after the door is locked. “That’s why they keep getting worse.”

Jisung rubs the back of his neck. “Like I said, bad day.” He wants to kiss the wrinkle on Minho’s nose. This thought has never occurred to him before, but it is a nice thought so he tucks it away. “I’ll be better tomorrow.” This promise means that he’ll have to put in extra work before the next practice session. Which means he’ll have to come back later at night.

Minho seems to realise it because his eyes soften. “Ah, Jisungie, it’s alright. You’re a quick learner, you’ll be able to pick up the steps before we’re done for the day. We can polish the moves tomorrow morning. I’ll help you out,” he pats Jisung’s chin.

Jisung hopes that his whimper isn’t audible. Hopes that the secret warmth in his veins is not reflecting in his eyes. “Thanks, hyung,” he murmurs. “You’re always so kind,” he says, “how are you so kind?” He doesn’t even care that his voice is probably telegraphing how he feels.

Minho’s face is unreadable again. He shifts his feet and plucks at his towel. “You think so?”

Jisung nods. “I know so.”

It seems to be the wrong thing to say because Minho’s ears turn red, but he presses his lips into a grim line. “Anyway,” he says and the way he is brushing away the moment sends Jisung’s heart on a tailspin, “we should get back,” he says and starts walking away.

Jisung gapes at him, unsure of what happened. How in the space of a few minutes, it seems like Minho has moved miles away? He is frozen, cold sludge percolating in his chest. He leaves the room slowly, his footsteps heavy as he makes his way back to the practice room.

Minho acts like nothing happened.

───────

Jisung welcomes work after that. His thoughts are in a tizzy because he knows that Minho is acting off and he can’t tell what else other than his behaviour in the unused practice room could’ve caused it.

He was so wrong. So wrong to think that it all meant something. That it meant something to Minho.

Minho avoids him. Well, he doesn’t avoid him physically because that would be obvious in a few seconds considering the close quarters they work in, but he doesn’t let Jisung come closer. He manoeuvres around the  _ topic _ with ease and leaves Jisung befuddled and hurt. Minho is usually so upfront if he doesn’t like something and so honest that this avoidance makes no sense.

Jisung lets himself be led from one engagement to the next and smiles through them. He writes and composes and dances – with intense concentration – and does his best to push other distracting things to the back of his mind.

To top it all off, Minho texts him reminders to eat, to leave the studio in time, and to sleep. Jisung thinks this is the worst because Minho is pretending that nothing happened even after something happened and he is acting like he is unaffected when he is. His eyes are shadowed and his lips are always pursed. There’s an unrelenting paleness to his face. Jisung isn’t any better; the makeup artists find five new things to complain about his face every day.

The first day of break is miserable. Minho is in a snit and he glowers and growls at everything in his vicinity. Jisung is supposed to help him out with the cooking – the chore schedule was created long before this mess – and dread seeps like cement, leaving him with heavy feet that refuse to move. He wades into the kitchen anyway because at least he will be alone with Minho and maybe he’ll be able to ask:  _ what the fuck, hyung? _

The tap of Minho’s knife hitting the chopping board is loud. His shoulders are tight and he is drawn in on himself. Jisung hurts because Minho looks miserable. “Hyung,” he says, raising his voice over the thudding noise, “how can I help you?”

Minho points to a pile of vegetables on the counter. Jisung grimaces when he sees the onions. He’s near enough to tears that they’ll just let loose the waterworks. Still he takes another knife and settles down to chop the mushrooms. Silence creeps into the centre of the room, skirting the hum of the refrigerator and the faint honk of cars drifting in through the window. Minho moves to the stove.

Jisung starts on the potatoes. He has no idea how to broach the topic now that he is here. Minho’s hoodie swallows his frame and without any makeup, he looks young and vulnerable.  _ He is young and vulnerable _ , Jisung thinks. He’s all of twenty-two, he's still a  _ young _ adult.

“I think I owe you an explanation,” Minho says, shattering the glass like silence. He is leaning against the counter, his arms wrapped around him. His brows are pinched.

Jisung opens and closes his mouth, shocked as if he’s been caught out though he hasn’t done anything. He fiddles with his knife. “Yeah, you do.”

Minho exhales. He frees one of his arms and rubs his face, but leaves the other hand wrapped around his middle. This self-soothing behaviour makes guilt prickle in Jisung’s gut.

“I am not angry,” he says, “I just – I just… want to know.” Other than the bubbling of the stew, the only noise in the kitchen is what filters in from the other rooms.

Minho switches off the stove and drops his head. “I thought I would talk to you when we got the break so that your work isn’t affected,” he says. “I should’ve communicated that, sorry.”

Jisung wants to smile at how similarly they think even as he is plunging in ice water, cold fear stabbing at every inch of him.  _ Here it comes _ .

“That day in the room…” Minho continues, eyes still glued to the floor, “it looked like – I thought – I felt… that you were going to confess.”

Jisung comes to a standstill except for the shame that is starting to trickle, the scorching of his face and his insides, and the burn behind his eyes. One more word and the dams will break.

Minho’s voice is so raw, so soft when he says, “I want you so bad, but I didn’t want to lie to you. I didn’t want you to still have an illusion.”

“What?” Jisung says, mind warring between the hope that blooms at,  _ I want you so bad _ , and the sheer confusion of  _ I don’t want to lie to you _ . Harried, his brain flashes images of all the gangster movies he has watched.

“You said that I was kind – that I take a lot of effort for everyone and stuff,” Minho is looking at him now, wild-eyed and with blotchy cheeks, “but like it’s not who I am. It isn’t natural – I have to think and then do it. It doesn’t come easily to me,” Minho says, pleadingly, “I have to think about everything I do.”

“Wait. Are you saying…” Jisung asks, knitting his brows, “that you plan out the stuff you do? That you think through every act of kindness that you have to do?”

Minho shrinks into himself and Jisung stands up. They both flinch at the screech of the chair. Jisung stands in front of Minho.

“Yes,” Minho says, his voice wobbling.

Jisung pitches his voice to be as low as possible, so low that only Minho can hear him. “Do you do it to manipulate us? For personal gain?”

Minho shakes his head, mouth twisting in offence.

Jisung tugs his hands away from his body, holds them in his. Minho’s hands are cold. “Then why do you do it?”

Minho swallows and his fingers spasm. He exhales and looks away. “Because it is nice,” he says simply, “because I like making things easier for everyone. I like it when they’re – when they’re happy.”

It is like all the cement – all the weight from before has been chipped away. Like he is emerging from a cast with his muscles and gristle free of everything that held them in, that closed them out from the world. “Hyung,” he whispers, “then why is it an illusion?”

Minho snatches his hands away from Jisung. He gestures in the space between them, “because it is literally planned?” There are tears in the corner of his eyes, “because you like me for it and it is all fake?”

“Hyung,” Jisung says in an even tone though he is too giddy, too restless, “respectfully, you’re being an idiot.”

Minho’s mouth drops and Jisung cups his face. Minho’s cheeks are hot and he’s so beautiful that Jisung’s eyes are wet. “No, the fact that you  _ choose _ to be kind,” he shakes Minho’s head, “is so – I don’t even have words. And I like you because you’re Minho hyung and not because you do things for me.”

“But, you said,” Jisung squishes his cheeks and the rest of his words come out muffled, “you always said that it means a lot to you that,” Minho frowns and flicks Jisung’s jaw, “let me go.”

Jisung drops his hand, his cheeks hurting because –  _ how cute _ . He interrupts Minho, “I like you because you  _ choose  _ to be kind every day,” he says, wrapping a hand around Minho’s waist, “because you always try your best, because you care so much, because you are dumb.” He gives Minho a quick hug, “hyung, like, this is the dumbest reason for angsting so much.”

“It is not dumb to me,” Minho mutters, pulling Jisung into him again. “I thought – you would be mad if you found out that I am not like you think.”

Minho smells like detergent and sweat. Jisung’s head is woolly, and he tightens his hold on Minho. “I know it’s not dumb to you,” he says, “I didn’t mean it that way – just if we had talked about it properly then we could’ve avoided a few days of angst.”

Minho kisses his temple. “It was terrible,” he mutters.

“It was,” Jisung agrees, tingling pleasantly. He feels drowsy, the sudden relief after concentrated stress flooding him is soporific. “And my reaction would be the same if I had found out before.”

Minho sighs, sagging against him. “Are you sure – that…”

“Yes,” Jisung says, pulling away from Minho’s grasping arms, “I like you,” he says, daring Minho to disagree, “and if anything this has just made me adore you more.”

Minho’s mouth drops open and his cheeks flush. “Adore me,” he says, sounding startled. It is surprisingly easy to fluster him.

“Yes,” Jisung agrees, a little abashed now that they’ve spoken. He picks at the string of his hoodie. “What now?” he asks after the silence stretches. His ears are burning.

“Let’s cook,” Minho says. “It is almost lunch time. We’ll have a riot if we don’t finish cooking.”

Jisung gapes at him, heart cracking. “Um.” He had thought – well Minho said that he wants him too.

Minho raises a brow at him, “yes?”

Jisung’s face is burning so much that he is afraid that he’ll melt into the floor. Still, he gathers courage from a dusty shelf and inhales. “Do you–” he tugs at his hoodie, “do you want to go on a date? Sometime?”

Minho laughs. Jisung takes a step back but before he can process what is happening, Minho pulls him closer. “I am so sorry,” he chuckles, his thumb caressing Jisung’s cheekbones, “but you looked so earnest and shocked that I couldn’t resist teasing you.”

Jisung whines and pushes at Minho’s chest. “Hyung!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Minho says though he doesn’t sound sorry. A pause. “I want to kiss you,” he admits, his thumb swiping over Jisung’s bottom lip.

“You should,” Jisung grumbles though the words come out all shaky, “for scaring me like that.”

Minho smiles and tilts his head. Jisung swoops and covers the distance.

**Finish**.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, that was one sappy mess. Thank you so much for reading <3\. I would love to know what you think! 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/trip_the_zipp)  
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